


to infinity and bed bath and beyond

by lameafpun



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Candles, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, an unholy amount
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-11-26 20:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lameafpun/pseuds/lameafpun
Summary: It's six a.m. on a Tuesday and you can't choose between evergreen or hot cocoa & cream. Even with a discount, those things are fifteen bucks a pop and you're far more conflicted than you probably should be.The fellow candle enthusiast gets it.





	1. Chapter 1

You tuck your hair behind your ear, wrinkling your nose as you inhale the scent of “lavender fields” that had a strong undertone of wax. 

“Ech, don’t think so.” 

The purple candle rejoins its brethren on the “for sale” table. Fifty percent off indeed. 

None of the others look particularly inspiring, and your eyes skate over the labels. 

Wait. What was the name of that blue one?

“April Showers.” You snort and made a weak finger gun motion with decidedly flaccid fingers at the hunks of wax. “Eyyyy.”

“Would you say that fragrance is especially pleasing over the others?”

_gAsp_ — “Ah, _fuck_.” You hiss, hunching over to rub at your leg. A bruise was already forming, you had no doubt, where you’d hit it against the edge of the table hard enough to knock a few candles off. “Uh, sorr — whoop — sh_it_!” 

In a truly unfortunate chain of events, your head clonked on the table as you leaned down to the fallen candles. 

_Clonk, clomp, clunk. _

Well, there went three “Clean Cottons”. Like coconuts from a palm tree. 

Pain pulsed through your body, a solid throb of agony that meshed well with the embarrassment that was blooming like a weed in your chest and spreading across the back of your neck. Holding your forehead with one hand, you made another attempt to reach for the fallen candles (please, please, please don’t be broken). 

The cool glass of the container is nearly slippery in your hands, but you manage to grip it steadily and stand up and place it on the table without further incident. One other blue-white candles is already settled on the plastic tabletop, an arm clad in red plaid placing the other one down. You follow the arm up to a — person! 

Uh. 

“Uh.” Hadn’t he mentioned candles? “Yeah, um, well I don’t know about April Showers — buttercream is pretty good but I think pumpkin pie is a pretty good fa - ty - block?”

Christ. Wait, what?

“What’s your favorite candle flavor?” You cringe at yourself. Evidently, the coffee hadn’t kicked in quite yet. 

The guy, who manages to make jeans and a plaid jacket look like standard office wear, stares down at you with the deepest dark brown eyes you’ve ever had the pleasure of looking into. 

“I am not entirely certain that the,” He glances at the label, ”Yankee Candle company’s products are safe for human consumption.”

This time, your snort is loud and followed by a helpless giggle. A touch of confusion drifts over his face; his eyebrows draw closer as he lightly cocks his head. 

“No, no — I —“ The coffee kicks in, lifting the customary early morning fog (oh god you haven’t sleep for two days and that last cup had four shots of instant coffee mix —), and ushering in the utter mortification you had been unable to register. “I’m sorry.” 

“You have done nothing that would require an apology?” He says — well, question. There’s something distinctly puppy-like about him and, in the haze of caffeine, you make the decision that you would die for this stranger you had met at Bath and Body Works at six in the morning. 

He’s cute, you think to yourself, in a manly way. With the plaid and the cow lick he looked like a mix between lumberjack and cute cowboy, but one who hadn’t had the idealism crushed out of him yet. 

His skin was so smooth. 

Did he moisturize? 

“I have found their ‘fireside’ fragrance to be the most relaxing. Sumo agrees with me.” The last part is said with a smile and directed at the candles themselves. Had he actually said that? Oh god, the coffee was getting to you wasn’t it?

Lips thinned, you go back to browsing the candles. 

“Ooh, that one’s pretty nice. Good for winter.” You point, and the guy nods. “But that one’s —“ 

‘Baby Got Back’ is suddenly blaring in the ‘Bath and Body Works.’ At six in the morning. 

“Buh,” you fumble your phone out of your pocket and, upon seeing the time, have a prompt heart attack.

-

Connor watches curiously as the candle stranger ran out of the shop. As Hank would say: “something had lit a fire under their ass.” While he still wasn’t sure how the logistics of that would work out (who would stand still in the event of a fire-related emergency?) his research had pointed to that being the correct usage. 

He turns back to the candles, already connecting to the shop’s website and going through the reviews, before noticing the small wallet left lying next to a few “Clean Cottons.”


	2. snail mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> literal crack

Mail became a little passé with the rise of email and delivery services, so it was fairly surprising when you checked your little mail slot and actually found something in it (well Amazon was a thing, and had been going strong for ten years — all hail our overlord Jeff Bezos and all that). 

(also it wasn’t exactly that mail was passé, you were more surprised about someone actually sending you something — most of the stuff that you received in the mail was spam and bills and other letter you didn’t really know what to do with)

Anyway. The mail. Right. There was a return address. 

How convenient. 

-

A mistake may have been made somewhere. You ponder these possible mistakes on a porch that had most definitely seen better days, pointer finger poised over a door bell that had a surprisingly cheery tone. It’s already stuck in your head and you’re doin a lil dance on the porch. Your spirit is buoyed by the tune and spontaneous dance and so you ring on the doorbell in cheerful abandon, in time with its tune, wiggling with the beat. 

The door is yanked open just as you begin to truly feel your oats, halting the entire dance. 

It’s a chunky older man with serious bedhead, wearing nondescript pajama pants and a t-shirt that has a suspicious beige-yellow stain down the front. 

“WHAT?” Even behind clenched teeth his voice is gruff, filled with a don’t-fuck-with-me energy. Paired with eyes that pierce you to the rotting wood? 

You’re terrified. 

“I’M SORRY! I GOT A PACKAGE FROM THIS ADDRESS AND IWANTEDTOCOMEBYANDSAYTHANKSBUTIREALIZETHISLOOKSALITTLECREEPY—!” 

The man (he’s really striking you as a retired lumberjack or something) sighs as your face grows more and more red, a smidge of concern wiggling around in his mind as you abstain from air involuntarily as you frantically try to explain yourself. 

“Christ, kid.” He mutters, massaging his temples. “Breathe.” 

Any attempt at explanation has already died in hissing wisps — the last vestiges of air, scraped from the insides of your lungs. At his command, you stop and wheeze. It’s less than attractive; you’re doubled over, hands on your knees, as you gasp for breath like a fish on dry land. 

He stands there in the doorway, looking on with bleary eyes as you cough and wheeze, and you focus on getting air back where it’s needed and the clump of (possibly?) dog hair on the hem of his pants. A vague, uncomfortably out-of-shape vibe settles in on the porch. It’s awkwardness, and it seems like it’s here to stay. 

You straighten, try to clear your throat and nearly choke instead. 

“Uh. Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” The emphatic “ever” goes unsaid. You try not to slump and instead clasp your hands loudly, noting the older guy’s wince at the noise. Ah, hangovers. Can’t relate. 

“Hank?” The cute guy from the Bath and Body Works steps into view behind the older guy. 

“Candle guy!” 

“ . . . Connor?” Hank’s brow is furrowed. The hangover is suddenly very apparent on his face, the tinge of green making you wince. “I’m going back inside.” 

He shuffles around Connor, disappearing behind him and suddenly it’s just you and the cute candle guy. 

“So.” Please choke me, daddy. “Uh — Thanks for mailing my wallet back? Real nice of you. Appreciated.” 

He nods, the movement shifting his perfectly styled hair. It still looks perfect. “It was fairly simple. Your address was written on a paper behind the card slot.” 

Ah, yes. The one adult responsibility you’d managed. “Still. Nice of you to not, y’know, pocket the money or the punchcard for Amelie’s. Just — one order away from my free drink and I’ve been waiting for that for a few weeks. So. Um. Thanks.” 

His head tilts in response to your worries, like he’s not able to process someone not doing the absolute selfless thing of just mailing it back. The idea probably never crossed his mind. 

“Since I still have the card — would you like a drink there? On me?” 

His brow furrows. “If I’m not mistaken, the card only covers one free drink.” 

“I’ll pay for yours. Just let me thank you, candle guy.” 

He nods slowly and you smile. 

-

Connor watches as you leave, the appointment already filed away in his reminders. Appointment? He’s combing through the definitions and synonyms, the scent of vaguely flowery, waxy candles lingering in his nose. Already, he’s getting inconsistent interpretations of appointment versus date. 

This is a question for Hank. 

Faint retches echo through the house, the thin walls absolutely failing at soundproofing. 

Later, then.

**Author's Note:**

> i have no excuses. this was supposed to be smut but then it turned into this mess. i have a headache now.


End file.
